


he's easy to desire since there's not much to him

by Mattition



Series: The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does. [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anxiety, M/M, Mild lol, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattition/pseuds/Mattition
Summary: "Come now, Jonathan, and here I thought you did your research.” Elias is wearing a funny little smirk, and he tilts his head as if watching a particularly interesting insect. Jon stares at him.oops i live in this au now
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043436
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66





	he's easy to desire since there's not much to him

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mentions of anxiety attacks, smoking
> 
> Title is from Richard Siken's [ Landscape With a Blur of Conquerors](https://poets.org/poem/landscape-blur-conquerors)!
> 
> enjoy literally just a conversation... more to come

Jon would not call himself a coward. He likes to think that he’s smack in the middle on the scale; not brave, never in his life brave, but not a coward, either. He’s normal. He insists, he’s normal. Still, his hands are shaking a bit as he mounts the stairs in front of the Magnus Institute. He’s got a dissertation to finish and the Institute has basically all the information there is to find on Jonah Magnus, for obvious reasons. Still, he’d looked it up on his computer and carefully noted down the files he needed, and sent an email to their collections librarian and set up a time to come in and take a look at the files, and here he is, loitering on the steps.

Here he is, ducking into the alley and lighting up a cigarette. Coward. He’s not even sure what he’s afraid of; he’s _supposed_ to be here! Or at the very least, allowed to be. He’s nearly down to the filter when a side door opens a bit further down the alley. Out steps a man, handsome and tall, with a bit of a sour expression and disheveled hair. Jon can’t help but stare. He’s never really gotten the way people describe attraction, the wanting to have sex just because someone looks nice, but he’s a lover of arts; he appreciates aesthetics. This man is an aesthetic. Jon can’t quite pin down what it is about him, even as he watches the man take a mint tin from his suit pocket and pluck out what is obviously not just a cigarette. He holds it in his mouth and puts the mint tin away. Looks for a lighter. Huff in annoyance. He looks at Jon. Jon is a deer in headlights.

“Have you got a light?” He says it wry, a half-smile, a smirk, slashing his face. Jon holds out his lighter, a beaten-up thing, gold with a pattern of spider webs. He found it one day on the sidewalk. He hates it. He can’t get rid of it. The man steps close to him, a bit closer than what is typically acceptable. Usually Jon’s personal bubble is made of steel. Why this man gets to step into it so easily, Jon can’t comprehend. Still, he flicks the lighter on, hand trembling finely. It’s his own fault for drinking coffee. The man steadies his hand and bends a bit to light his joint. He puffs a few times. Cuts his eyes across to meet Jon’s. “And who are you?” 

“J-Jon. Sims. Jonathan; I—”

“Jonathan.” Says the man. “Lovely name. I’m Elias.” He doesn’t kiss the back of Jon’s hand. Jon doesn’t know why it disappoints him, this little intrusive thought that dances up the edge of his consciousness. _He looks the type to kiss your hand_. Jon shoves the thought to the back of his head and stuffs the lighter back into his pocket, breaking Elias’ hold on him. Elias looks confused and a bit worried. “Sorry, are you alright?”

“Yes,” says Jon. “I’m sorry, I just remembered I was supposed to go—I lost track of time, and now I rather think I’m late,” He’s the type to blush when he’s anxious, and now there’re spots of heat on his cheeks, and he can only think of how ugly he must look, copper-faced and sweating in the chill March air. He’s a boiling kettle on a stovetop and he doesn’t understand why. Elias smiles at him. There is a charming little gap between his front teeth.

“Don’t worry, Jonathan, I’ll take you where you need to go, eh? You can blame it on me.” He puts a proprietary hand on Jon’s elbow and leads him further into the alley. “If you’d wait a second of course; I’d rather get a bit of a mellow going, I’ve been having a rather stressful one.” Jon makes some noises that must be a sufficient substitute for agreement because Elias nods and brings the joint back up to his plush mouth. Jon didn’t even notice him remove it. He smiles and takes a long drag. He stares at Jon for a long moment, eyes glittering chips of jade. 

“I doubt you’re supposed to be smoking in the middle of the workday,” Jon says, at length. 

“You were doing it,” says Elias, smoke curling artfully from the corner of his mouth. “Why can’t I?”

“That’s not—it’s different!” Jon splutters.

“Hmm,” Elias leans back into his space, faces inches apart, and takes a deep breath in. Jon tries to hide his shudder. He’s never met someone who’s made him feel like this. He’s hesitant to call it attraction, because he’s really rather unfamiliar with it, but Elias just has a presence about him, like you have to watch him; Jon can barely tear his eyes away. “What is so much more acceptable about your little cloves than my weed, mon petit?” 

“Er.”

“Tell me what brings you to the institute,” Elias commands, leaning back against the wall. Jon is thankful for the out. He’s always excited to talk to someone about Magnus and his contemporaries, and maybe Elias even knows a thing or two about him.

“I’m doing some research on Jonah Magnus. All of his files are here.”

“They are.”

“Yes! It’s funny, it’s almost like whoever curated the collection went around and snatched up every letter, diary, file, whatever, that even mentioned Jonah Magnus. I mean, obviously a place called the Magnus Institute would have information on the _founder_ but. Hm. Anyway, I think he’s really very interesting! Did you know he wrote poetry in his youth?” Jon grabs Elias’ arm in his excitement.

“Oh. I did, actually. Have you read much of it?”

“All I could find! I, well, poetry is something of a guilty pleasure of mine, if you’ll allow me to spill my secrets,"

“Any time,”

“Right, well, I study Theatre and English, and I’m a big fan of Jonah Magnus, and the, er, the paranormal, so I thought—my dissertation is about creative writing, and the process, and I wanted to see if I could add some-some of his work to mine.”

“That is very interesting, Jonathan.” Elias says, putting his hand on top of Jon’s. Jon feels his face heat back up upon the realization that he’d never let go of Elias’ arm. Elias gifts him a wry little smirk and stubs out his joint on the wall. There’s about half of it left, and Elias tucks it into Jon’s shirt pocket, smooths his hand down a bit, making Jon stutter and flush harder. “I rather think I’ve held you up enough. Let’s get you to the library.”

Elias pulls out a key card, which he swipes through the reader. The reader beeps cheerily and he opens the door. He bows a bit and gestures Jon into the building. It opens into a wide marble corridor with stairs going either way. Jon can just see a heavy door at the bottom of the stairs leading downward, and a sign “Archives | Artifact Assessment & Storage.” He has a sudden, desperate need to know what could be down there. What would warrant such precaution? He’s taken half a step towards the stairs when Elias’ hand wraps around his elbow. Jon whips his head around.

“Careful, Jonathan. We wouldn’t want you wandering around and getting hurt.” 

“What’s down there?” Elias begins leading him away, towards the upper floors

“Ah, Artifacts: dangerous books, painting, and the like, you know, and, of course, our Archives. We accept statements people have about the paranormal, as I’m sure you’ve read.”

“D-dangerous books?” asks Jon, stomach in his throat. Elias turns assessing eyes onto him.

“Yes. Terrible things. Could collapse your whole house or sink a small city. That kind of thing.” He shrugs a bit, completely nonplussed at the idea. Jon takes a deep breath. It doesn’t help him much. He takes another. There is darkness edging his vision. Elias shakes him a bit. He has one hand on Jon’s neck, heavy and grounding. Jon is having a panic attack, he realizes. He must say it out loud, too, because Elias squeezes the back of his neck, thumb digging into an oddly sensitive spot behind his ear. His knees go a bit wobbly. “Not in the hallway, mon petit; let’s get you to my office, shall we?”

Elias helps him into the lift at the top of the stairwell and hits the button for the top floor. Jon leans against the wall and tries to do that stupid counting exercise he remembers reading about. Elias watches him curiously. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” Jon snaps, though Elias didn’t say anything.

“I’m sure. Still, I must insist you come with me. Perhaps a cup of tea to calm your nerves.”

“I-I have to go to the library and apologise to the librarian and beg for her time, I can’t just—”

“I’ll have Rosie call her, pas problem!” Elias dismisses, waving an elegant hand through the air. 

“Who’s Rosie?”

“My assistant, of course. Come now, Jonathan, and here I thought you did your research.” Elias is wearing a funny little smirk, and he tilts his head as if watching a particularly interesting insect. Jon stares at him. For all that he is a handsome white man of imposing stature, he _is_ familiar looking. Jon thinks back to his careful note taking when he was researching the Institute. There is a section on their sparse webpage about the heads of the institute and Jon had skimmed over it, and glanced briefly at a photograph of the former head and current one, but he’s shite with faces and he’s been a little distracted anyway, what with his grandmother getting sick, and him trying to fast-track his time in university. 

“You’re not the head of the Magnus Institute, are you?” Jon asks miserably. Elias’ answering expression tells him all he needs to know, and he tips his head back on a short groan. He’d usually be much better behaved than this; his grandmother at least taught him manners, but he’s still got the an anxiety attack hovering at the edges of his mind, and he’s just watched this man smoke weed in the back alley like some wasteoid, so he doesn’t quite have the energy to be the prim and proper Jon Sims his grandmother raised.

The elevator beeps and the doors slide open.

“You’re right on the money, Jonathan! Come have a seat and we can continue our conversation.” Elias takes him by the arm and leads him into a small lobby area, where a pretty receptionist sits, eyebrows raised. She’s got a little sudoku puzzle book open in front of her, and sticks a biro behind her ear when Elias turns to her. “Rosie, be a dear and call down to tell Shahir that Jon Sims and I got caught up in a conversation and that I’ll be making him very late.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Bouchard!” chirps Rosie, turning to her phone with a hum. Elias guides Jon across the lobby and sweeps him into his office. He deposits Jon into a handsome chaise and pats him on the head.

“Sh-Shall I call you Mr. Bouchard?” Jon is fumbling his words, trying to keep his wits about him. He values formality, a certain pattern to conversation; he needs it, really. Elias hums, thinking, traipsing his way back to his office door. As he closes it, he shoots Jon a sly little smile. 

“If you’d like to, mon petit.”


End file.
